Work Text:
Crowley tightened the criss-cross pattern of his boot laces . When he looked up, he had to suppress a smile. Instead of his signature black-and-red aesthetic, he was wearing various shades of green. His wardrobe tonight was anything but fashionable. He wore a practical camouflage trousers with good insulation. The zipped-up jacket covered a thermal shirt and would protect him from the fine drizzle.
His dark green backpack was packed as he checked one more time if he had thought of all the equipment; the binocular was fastened to the side in easy reach, his field guide (protected in a plastic zip bag) was tucked in one of the many pockets of his trousers, the water bottles were filled to the brim and he even remembered to pack some sandwiches. Triple checking the battery on his camera he headed out.
He felt it in his boots - today was his day!
Today, on a rainy night in April he would find one - the first nightingale of the year!
Meanwhile, across town Aziraphale was pulling his tartan stockings up. His clothes were sensible, held in various shades of dark beige, and a dark green fedora would protect his blonde curls from the fine drizzle. The binding on his boots was carefully laced and secured, the backpack filled with all essentials: a thermos filled with hot cacao, another of hot tea, some nibbles, a binocular and a camera.
He was ready to go on the hunt!
Especially since he had heard the bird's chirp yesterday on his morning walk through the forest. It had been calling to him, and he knew in his gut that this year was his year! This year, he would be the first one to immortalise a nightingale on picture! Not the flashy, pretentious newcomer who stole his spot in the limelight one year ago.
With only around 6.700 male birds living in the UK and their habitat, the rolling grasslands, shrinking, their birdwatching group feverishly anticipated the return of the birds' annual return from Africa each year.
It was no secret that Aziraphale knew the nature around Tadfield best, having basically grown up on the outside, trailing behind his father as he wrestled with investors who wanted to rob the countryside of its beauty by replacing it with tarmac and grey buildings. The only time people didn't see the shock of soft blonde ringlets flashing through the undergrowth was when Aziraphale immersed himself in the fantasy world of his extensive book collection. This collection had evolved alongside him during his progress through childhood, his teenage years and his adult life, even though he had stubbornly stuck to the classics. He had slowly moved from Winnie-the-Pooh and Peter Rabbit to Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde.
Bearing this in mind, it came as a shock to everyone that the new arrival, Anthony J Crowley, had spotted, photographed and catalogued the first nightingale sighting the previous year. Nobody had suspected the solitary person as someone to roam the fields and undergrowth at odd hours of the night or in the early morning hours. Certainly not after rumours made their round that the postman had been greeted by a dishevelled redhead, probably hiding a hangover behind dark glasses and dressed in clothes he had slept in, on more than one occasion.
No one in Tadfield dared to ring his doorbell before two in the afternoon for fear of unleashing the standoffish man's sharp tongue. Apart from this oddity, he was a welcome sight in Tadfield, unless he was seated behind the steering wheel of his car. The local birdwatching group held his knowledge of the wildlife and the local birds in as high esteem as they did Aziraphale's. However, some still had their suspicions, and members tented to have their favourite of the two men, thus creating two fractions within the group. These two fractions fought fiercely to protect the diversity of the local wildlife, but with different approaches.
While Aziraphale led the group that played along the rules, Crowley's fraction employed more mischievous means. While Aziraphale fought with the pen, Crowley would sneak through corridors and empty building sites, shift landmarks just to disrupt and delay construction.
Combined, their efforts would have formed an impenetrable barrier, like a dragon rearing its head to guard the wildlife of Tadfield. But as it stood, due to one bird showing itself to the 'wrong' person in the dark of the night, they were each on their own side, closing their doors in the wee hours of the night to set off and prove their own superiority.
After leaving the last lights of Tadfield behind, Crowley took off his glasses and put them away in one of his many pockets. They had helped preserve his night vision on his journey through the brightly lit streets to the small grove, but he no longer needed them.
He inhaled the clear, rain-drunk air deeply. He enjoyed the smell of wet earth while stroking over the soft baby leaves of the trees. After a long and cold winter nature was finally waking up. Spring was coming again, and the cold of the winter was a thing of the past. Soon it would be nothing but a faint memory that he would push away during the coming seasons. Until Father Frost jumped at him again and sent him into hibernation in his little cottage.
Anathema had hinted to him that the first nightingale had been heard by Aziraphale. At least, if the gossip her boyfriend Newton had provided was true. Both of them had looked knowingly at each other as he tried to receive the information with as much grace as he could muster. The race had begun, and he was up to the challenge…
He moved through the forest as quietly as possible, stopping after each step to listen for the movements of the animals that occupied the night. During one of these pauses, he became aware of a large shadow looming next to him from the undergrowth. Crowley remained motionless as he found himself face to face with a doe. Her ears twitched nervously. Her mouth moved slowly as she chewed on some young leaves. Had the wind been blowing from a different direction, or had the sound of dripping water not masked some of his movements, she certainly would have dashed away. She would have jumped over the dead branches lying on the ground and sent brown leaves flying through the air.
As he monitored the doe ,his eyes adjusted. He became aware of the soft swelling of her body.
Shit!
He swore to himself. He shouldn't move unless the deer decided to find a better midnight snack elsewhere. If he spooked her, she might overexert herself due to the stress.
For the time being, he was stuck. At least the weather forecast kept to its word, and the sky cleared up as he stood frozen to the spot on the edge of the clearing. From time to time, the doe eyed him warily while she stalked from branch to branch, harvesting young leaves. Thankfully, she didn't seem threatened by his presence and he was able to adjust his hearing to the birds coming out of their hiding places. Stuck to the spot, he heard a robin, some song trushes and a blackbird, but no nightingales. He was itching to move again, but the doe's rump patch was still visible. The animal had apparently decided to take her time. Slowly she moved through the night.
"Twee-tee-reee, chirr-chirr-woo, trrreee-twee-twee-"
Crowley's head snapped towards the east. There it was again, "Trill-chur-wee, tee-lee-tee, churreee-woo…"
The unmistakable trill of a nightingale's song. It came from the east, where a small brook wound its way through the forest.
Aziraphale stood at the edge of the clearing, wiping his glasses for the up tenth time on the sleeve of his shirt, which he had wriggled free from the inside of his coat sleeve. Despite knowing it would be rain until around eleven at night, he had not brought an umbrella. The cheerful, fashionable tartan fabric would have scared the wildlife, not to mention his target. Thus he had resigned himself to be drizzled on. Thanks to his trusty fedora, the dampness was bearable, and he was content to clear droplets of water from his glasses.
He was just about to break through the brushwood when he saw her. She was a beautiful thing. Her long neck stretched out as she gracefully plucked the sprouting greenery from the surrounding branches. Her slim legs held her rounded body above the grass. Traces of water ran through her fur. Aziraphale stood in awe, watching the doe make her way slowly across the clearing, chewing and watching her surroundings carefully. He was grateful that the rain masked his scent.
Finally, he saw the white rump patch on her rump disappear between the dark undergrowth as the pale moonlight lit up the clearing . The night's silence was broken only by the dripping of water from the higher branches. His boots squelched as he lifted them from the muddy ground. It was at this moment that he heard it: the distinctive call of the nightingale, "Trill-chur-wee, tee-lee-tee, churreee-woo…"
Leaning his head to one side, he listened with intent. In the slight echo of the forest, he could not tell from which direction the sound was coming. "Chirr-tee-ree, pee-weet-chur, trill-twee-twee…" The melody continued. Aziraphale closed his eyes, and suddenly it came to him: the song was coming from the east, where the little brook crawled through the forest.
A branch broke and his eyes snapped open. Opposite of him, half hidden between two slim trees, stood his nemesis! "Anthony J Crowley," he hissed, stepping into the fading night. Now that he was closer, he could see where the other man was looking - east!
Their eyes met.
The nightingale's song in the distance taunted them both.
They both had to make a decision.
Should they break cover and run towards the brook, spooking the forest animals in the process, or risk arriving after their rival and missing the first sighting of the season?
"What are you doing here?" Aziraphale stage-whispered.
Crowley looked at him and then east again. The shuffle of his feet added a squelching sound to the song. Aziraphale's heart raced. Would the man dare and make a run for it and scare away the nightlife?
"A bird told me that I could get lucky tonight." Crowley rasped as he emerged from the shelter of the trees.
Aziraphale felt smugness and pride swell up in his chest as he saw that the redhead's normally so carefully styled hair was plastered to his skull . Instead of glowing amber, it was a dark burgundy colour. His unprotected eyes reflected the nightlight streaming through the branches, glowing eerily in an honey-like colour.
"And you? What are you doing here in the rain tonight?"
It was now Aziraphale's turn to answer. He turned his head to the east, towards the steady stream of the nightingale song and replied, "The bird itself invited me to the party."
From the corner of his eye, he saw Crowley take a step forward. "Well, we shouldn't keep our host waiting."
At first, they moved alongside each other. However, Crowley was definitely at an advantage. His long legs allowed him to take longer strides and cover more ground. Halfway through the clearing, Aziraphale realised that he would need to start jogging to keep up. This would mean that he would making more noise and disturbing the animals.
Fortunately, the forest was on his side. Soon, branches stretched out, and while Crowley had gained ground with his height, Aziraphale could easily duck under the branches catch up.
In their hasty chase ,they forgot which direction they were heading in - east, towards the brook. A nightingale sung to them like a siren: "Trill-chur-wee, tee-lee-tee, churree-woo…"
Knowing the area as well as the the content of his library, Aziraphale realised where he was in time and stopped at the riverbank. His heart raced as he looked wide-eyed at his surroundings. The nightingale's cheerful trill joined the pounding of his pulse in his ears and the slippery sound of feet being lifted from the mud.
Suddenly, he was hit by a bony body.
His heel slipped.
He lost his footing and approached the shallow water faster than he would have liked.
"Angel!" was all he heard in a half whispered warning before long arms closed around his chest, attempting to hold him upright while their owner also struggled with their footing. Any rescue attempt came too late or was too little.
Aziraphale gasped as the cold water hit his face, seeping into his boots and soaking his stockings as it climbed up his trouser legs. Thankfully, he had managed to stretch out his arms in time, so his soak his coat and jumper remained as dry as they could be after the soft drizzle. The nuisance of a man clung to his back, his arms hugging his shoulders. Annoyed, Aziraphale realised that the nuisance had probably managed to keep dry and was using him as a stepping stone.
Annoyed, he flexed his legs. Glad he had invested in proper footwear.
Did the man on top of him eat?
Baffled that he was barely out of breath from the added weight, Aziraphale stood up. Icy water streamed down his legs and pooled inside of his boots. Muscular legs closed around his waist and long fingers clung to the front of his coat.
Staggering over the slippery ground, Aziraphale crossed the river carefully, and exhaled heavily with exhaustion. On this side, the bank sloped gently, so there was no danger of them tumbling back into the icy water.
He turned and to overlook the lively brook. His hands were tucked behind Crowley's knees, holding his clingy load securely in place.
"I think you can let go now." Aziraphale sighed.
No answer was forthcoming. He could just feel the nodding movement of wet hair against his cheeks. Slowly, Aziraphale allowed his hands to leave the warm cavern behind Crowley's knees, slipping over the muscular calves and allowing his legs to sink to the ground. A desperate whimper tickled his ear as he tried to untangle Crowley from his back. The grip on his jacket tightened and Aziraphale shook his head.
"Really dear, is this necessary?"
Despite Crowley's mouth being next to his ear, he couldn't catch a word of the mumbled response.
"Excuse me?" he asked, prying strong fingers loose. While his efforts were rendered futile he finally received an comprehensive answer. "I'm afraid of heights," Crowley admitted, drawing his body flush back against Aziraphale's backpack.
"Crowley, dear, we're talking about 50 centimetres." Aziraphale kept his voice level, as though he was speaking to an animal he didn't want to spook.
"It's not the height that scares me," Crowley whined into Aziraphale's neck, "It's rather the fall I'm afraid of…"
Aziraphale had to stop himself from shaking his head. Never in his life would he have guessed that he would be standing in the middle of the night, soaked up to his waist, with an attractive man clinging to him for dear life, facing such an extent of vulnerability.
"My dear," it took all his willpower not to bite his tongue in frustration for letting the endearment slip for the third time. "There's no need for that. Look, there's a fallen tree. You can climb on that one to get down."
He felt the weight shift slightly, and wet curls brushed against his cheeks as a silent agreement was given.
The heavy weight on Crowley's chest lifted as the soles of his feet scraped against the wilting bark of the fallen trunk. He was close enough to solid ground for the bout of panic to subside. The warmth of Aziraphale's hands, penetrating fabric of his trousers, was reassuring. The broad, strong hands lingered until his legs stopped shaking and some more.
While Crowley eyed the short step down warily, Aziraphale turned and held out his hand to offer him some aid. Staring wide-eyed, Crowley was dumbstruck. The wind rustled through the trees, and an exasperated sigh joined in as he found himself lifted from the trunk and placed onthe ground.
"Thank you." He mumbled, staring at the little puddles, reflecting the silver glow of the moonlight, forming at Aziraphale's feet.
The man didn't seem to notice his attempt at social niceties. His attention had returned to the forest and the wildlife moving through the night. He didn't seem to mind his freezing trousers clinging to his legs or the soaking wet feet.
"It's gone." Aziraphale stage-whispered.
Well, two could play that game. If their brief exchange of kindness was already a thing of the past, then Crowley would return to the hunt, too. There was no point in lingering on the embarrassment he had suffered just moments earlier.
"Does it surprise you? Given all the havoc you created by trashing around in the water?" he snapped at the blonde. Attempting to ignore the look of offended outrage, Crowley turned in a different direction.
"And whose fault is that?" Aziraphale barked back. The pale light of the now clear sky highlighted the coldness of his eyes.
"Not my fault that you stopped suddenly," Crowley shrugged.
"Unlike you 'wanna be ornithologist', I know the terrain I'm passing through, and I don't use unsuspecting birdwatchers as a battering ram to stop myrun." The harsh reply was dishes out well-seasoned. Crowley ground his teeth.
"Well, at least the 'wanna be ornithologist' had managed to be the first to greet a nightingale last year. I'll repeat that accomplishment this year again and you are…"
Crowley hadn't realised that his voice had risen above a hushed whisper. They received no warning other than a grunt as a clearly distressed badger darted past them.
"I'm going to the left and you're going right." Aziraphale interrupted his scramble for the end of the sentence. He had already turned his back as he started to make his way along the small trail, accompanied by the squelching of his shoes.
"Suits me," announced Crowley, turning on his heels. He searched for a path that would lead him away from the insufferable posh bookseller.
Moving carefully, Crowley made his way through the undergrowth. Their little spat had clearly disturbed the animals that occupied the night, and he hoped it hadn't destroyed any chance of snapping a photo of his target.
As he sneaked through the darkness, he strained his ears not to miss a sound. He could clearly hear the soft footsteps of Aziraphale slowly fading away.
He stopped in his tracks and exhaled. Finally, finally, he was on his own again. No snobbish book hoarder telling him how high a height should be before one was allowed to be afraid of it. No warm hands holding him securely in place. No, these were intrusive thoughts and had no place under the starlit night sky.
As he continued on his way, the night began to come back to life. A hare crossed his path - or rather, he crossed the hares path. An owl swooped from a tree. The silence that followed in its wake was eerie. This was especially the case when his coat had decided that this was the right moment to get entangled in some shrubbery, giving him a mild heart attack as adrenaline flooded his blood and activated the flight reflex. Fortunately, he had managed to escape the trap more or less unharmed, except for the scratches on his hand.
Another thought surfaced: Aziraphale had sent him in this direction, fully aware that the area was covered with nature's booby traps. If his state-of-the-art coat had gotten torn, he would send the bill to a certain antiquarian bookshop belonging to A. Z. Fell. As he lamented his luck and the injustice of the world, he slipped and lost his footing. Soggy leaves cushioned his fall, but then they betrayed him and sent him sliding downwards faster. The slope wasn’t steep, but it was uncomfortable as hell, with pebbles striking his lips and mud caking his chest. Leaves got stuck in his hair, and the scratches on his hands flared up from the rough treatment. After what felt like an eternity, he came to an halt. As he gathered his wits, an all-too-familiar voice greeted him: "Well, look who the forest chewed and spat out."
Defeated, Crowley closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. Where else would he land but at the feet of his enemy? He stood up silently and retrieved his torch from his pocket to assess his condition. The sight that met his gaze in the yellow light of the thin beam took his breath away; Aziraphale was seated on a makeshift throne cobbled together from cushions, patchwork blankets, and an old bicycle wheel serving as a backrest. Above Aziraphale's head, a skull grinned widely at Crowley.
The man looked as if the little stunt at the brook had never happened. His trousers and shoes looked clean and dry, as if he had just come back from the dry cleaner. Crowley gaped, his mouth opening and closing as his brain tried to process what he saw.
"You! - How? - What?" He finally stammered.
Aziraphale adjusted his shoelaces with a self-satisfied smirk before acknowledging Crowley's words.
"How eloquent we are this fine night. Had the fox caught your tongue?"
Still lost for words, Crowley concluded that the best way to approach this bastard was to keep his mouth shut and see if he would be more forthcoming with more information. Unfortunately for his curiosity, the other man seemed to be taking the same approach, rummaging through his rucksack and blinking slowly against the light beam still directed at him.
Crowley hastily redirected the torch and decided now would be as goosd a time as any to check on his condition. Fortunately ,his coat was not torn, just smudged with mud. Dead leaves were glued to the sticky liquid, and although his hands were covered in red scratches, they were not bleeding. All in all, he had survived his encounter with the shrubbery and the forest floor in a fairly good condition.
A gurgling sound brought his attention back to the infuriating menace. The prim, posh, put together - angel who pushed a plastic mug containing a hot liquid into his hand. Tentatively, he sniffed the brown liquid. His eyes never left the other man, who miracled another mug from his backpack and filled it up with the same liquid.
"Something to warm our bodies."
Crowley waited. His gaze remained fixed on Aziraphale, who sat on the throne as if he belonged there: the king of the forest; the guarding angel of nature; the…
A light eyebrow arched upwards as the Aziraphale lifted his mug in a silent toast, and Crowley raised his own in an automatic answer. The soft, ecstatic sigh that escaped the other ornithologist as he savoured the drink and relaxed back into the plush cushions took Crowley by surprise in an unguarded moment. In that moment, in which he had lifted the mug to his own lips and ha creamy, chocolaty liquid, laced with the sharp string of a good portion of rum hit his tongue.
The drink, not equipped with a human anatomy chart, chose the wrong way to enter his system, and a strong coughing fit hit him like a train. As he managed to place the cup on one of the nearby tree stumps, he saw that dark stains had given his jacket a polka-dot pattern. Wheezing for air, Crowley looked in the direction of the throne and saw that Aziraphale was still sitting on it, relaxing and visibly enjoying his cacao.
"Too strong?" This comment was the only acknowledgement of him nearly chocking to death.
"No, I just…"
"Don't tell me you're afraid of cacao too?"
Crowley stared. What was that? There was no malice in his voice, rather - was he being teased? Still latching onto the idea that he was being teased by an Victorian gentleman he slowly shook his head.
"In that case, my dear fiend, I would recommend you drink up. The night is still long, the nightingale seems to make itself scarce, and tepid cacao is just an insult to your taste buds."
Pondering this, Crowley did as he was bid. He picked up his drink and carefully consumed the drink. The smooth, velvety texture of the chocolate eased over the sharp tingle of the alcohol on his tongue, and even though the cacao had cooled, a soothing warmth spread through his body. Finally, his strained nerves began to relax.
"What else are you hiding in this backpack of yours?" Crowley asked bewildered.
Aziraphale shrugged, "Just the necessities; something to nibble, something warm to drink and spare clothes, in case a demon decides to hitch a ride on your back over a brook."
This time, Crowley had paid attention. Not just to the words spoken, but also to the expressions flickering over Aziraphale's face. He was being teased!
"Still you decided to share your cocoa with demonic me," he smiled, lifting the half-empty mug in thanks.
"If I may be so bold and sum up our past interactions, I come to the conclusion to be the angelic one of the two of us."
Shit!
Aziraphale had caught on. Nevertheless, Crowley was not ready to give up his spiel and admit that, contrary to all their interactions of the past months and the spite surfacing in them, he was actually quite infatuated with the blonde.
"Not surprised here." Crowley snarled in answer. "With the name and everything…"
Crowley lifted an eyebrow as no quick-witted response came forward. The angel seemed to be searching for something. His eyes were closed and his head was shifted sideways, as if he was…
"Can you hear one?" Crowley whispered, leaning forward eagerly. Aziraphale hummed in answer.
"I heard something. But it was too heavy for a nightingale…"
Alarmed, Crowley closed his eyes and listened, too. Aziraphale was certainly right. Something heavy was moving through the undergrowth. Branches cracked and delicate leaves brushed against something solid.
Both men opened their eyes at the same time, mirroring the look of unease on each other's faces. Something big and heavy was on their trail and if not on their trail per definition, they might be in its way. A huge, dark shadow descended from the treetops and swooped dangerously close above their heads. Both men scrambled to the ground to protect their heads from the owl's sharp talons. Their mugs clattered to the ground, spilling the remains of their spiced cacao onto the earth.
"I don't think we're going to find a nightingale here - not with that many predators around," Crowley stage-whispered.
It was unnecessary to stage-whisper, as he suddenly found himself very close to his nemesis. When the owl had descended from the trees to make it clear that their presence was unwelcome, they both had jumped forward. Crowley towards the throne and Aziraphale away from it. Even though the moonlight creating only a silver veil over the clearing, Crowley could see clearly. Suddenly, they were just inches apart. He could smell the detergent Aziraphale used, as well as the shampoo and the cacao they had just shared. Light eyes, shining grey in the absence of colours, locked with his gaze.
"I think I have to agree with you," Aziraphale whispered hoarsely in reply.
A low snort made them jump and regain a decent amount of distance between them.
"What do you think this is? Do you have wild boars in this forest? They should have young ones at this time of the year."
"We might. Shadwell mentioned that he discovered turned soil last autumn. Maybe they're settling down here."
Crowley reached out. His fingers dug into the sturdy biceps. He felt reassured by the strength behind the muscles flexing under his fingertips.
"We need to leave - at once."
Aziraphale nodded and took his torch from Crowley's limp fingers. The yellow beam swept over the throne, and with a happy wiggle and a relieved 'aha', he retrieved his fedora and hid his pale blonde curls underneath the hat again. Crowley felt a pang of disappointment in his gut. He had enjoyed the way the moonlight reflected off his curls, covering Aziraphale with a silvery veil.
"We do indeed. I emphasise the 'we'. If the sow decides that we are a threat, it would be better for each of us to have someone close by."
"Yes, to use as a diversion." Crowley had not managed to keep his tongue or his thoughts in check. He didn't think that Aziraphale would push him in front of the sow to save his own bum, especially after he had heroically carried him over the brook, helped him down to the ground, and even shared his spiced cacao with him. No, the angel wouldn't do something like that. But experience had taught him that, when the instinct to run or fight set in, you could never be sure on how other people might react.
"No - to get help! I can't imagine you scrambling up the tree like a wiry squirrel1, even though you look like one."
They moved as quietly as possible towards the edge of the clearing in silent agreement. Their eyes searched for any sign of an sow, hell-bent on protecting her young ones from people who strove to protect the wild life.
As he trotted alongside Crowley, Aziraphale realised that his chances of being the first person to photograph a nightingale were slowly dwindling. This was especially true since he had to stay close to the lanky menace of the road to ensure they both made it out of the forest in one piece.
At least teaming up was the reasonable thing to do. As for the shared cacao, he still had his doubts. But Crowley had looked so - so lost. Beaten down and vulnerable, as he lay in front of him. Delectable bum in the air and… It had been the view of the bum which had tempted him to share his pick-me-up drink. Nothing else, certainly nothing else. He certainly wasn't in the process to change his unholy sentiment over the - What was this man doing now?
With a questioning look on his face, Aziraphale turned to look at Crowley. His eyes looked into the distance, and his brows were squinting in concentration. Before he could ask what was going on, the man lifted a finger to his lips and hushed him softly but urgently. He pointed to his ears, and Aziraphale understood. He started to listen too.
At first, he could only hear the sounds of the forest he had grown accustomed to; the rustling of leaves, the soft hoot of an owl in the distance and the rustling of a mouse in the leaves. Then, he heard it. A familiar melody from far away: "Chur-reee-twee, trill-chur-lee, chee-weet-woo…"
He would recognise this song anywhere. His nightingale had returned! Looking at Crowley, he could see the same thoughts racing through his mind and crossing his face. After all, they were still in a competition. Each of them on their own side.
"I don't think there are any boars around here…," the redhead whispered, slowly edging away from Aziraphale.
"I haven't heard one for some time," Aziraphale admitted, fully aware of what this statement implied.
"In that case," Crowley shrugged and made a beeline through the trees.
Aziraphale closed his eyes one more time. He wanted to check whether the bird was still in the same place or had moved. His hunch was correct; this time the chirp was coming from a different, more distant direction. He was about to turn and head towards the source of the song when he was struck by a sudden realisation! He stopped in his tracks and exhaled heavily - there it went, his chance to catch the bird on camera before the fiend did it.
He was in no hurry. Judging by Crowley's reaction to heights, he wouldn't need to. Most likely, he would stand at the edge of the gorge, where the coal mining had ceased, waiting for someone to pass by and rescue him. With his hands clasped behind his back and setting one foot carefully in front of the other, he changed direction and followed the path Crowley had taken. Smiling softly, Aziraphale enjoyed his stroll through the forest, listening for any sounds of distress in the distance. He did not have to wait long. After just a few metres, he heard a stifled scream, followed by silence.
The soft smile on Aziraphale's lips stretched into a wide grin. Crowley had discovered it. He slowed his leisurely pace to have admire some leaves unfolding and listen for any sound of a nightingale from time to time. He had time. It was not as if the other man would move a muscle.
A second scream pierced through the night; long, desperate, and panicky.
Aziraphale's heart started racing and he picked up the pace. Essentially jogging, he weaved between trees, heedless of any sound he made. He ducked under low -hanging branches, jumped over fallen trunks and nearly slipped on dead leaves more than once. After what felt like an eternity, he reached the edge of the strip mine. He was relieved to see that it was not so overgrown that it could be overlooked and someone could stumble into it. However, there was no sign of Crowley. Carefully, and not wanting to follow his competitor's lead, he moved towards the edge. The man had probably tried to be brave, misstepped in fright, and slipped downwards. But there was no sign of broken branches or uprooted plants, nor any sign of Crowley. As he paced along the edge in each direction searching, he discovered some shoe prints in the mud. Judging by their shape and depth, the person wearing them had stopped abruptly and stood rooted to the spot for some time. Then something must have had happened. Twisting his fedora in his hand, Aziraphale wondered how he should explain to the other members of their group that Crowley had vanished into thin air? Would they believe him when he told them that he had lost the redhead during their race to be the first to see a nightingale?
"-ziraphale? Angel?" The voice calling out to him was barely audible. It was a desperate, whiny whisper from somewhere above his head.
Aziraphale looked up and immediately dropped his hat. "What are you doing up there?" he shouted in surprise. The sudden loud noise elicited a cacophony of fast movements as animals which rushed to the safety of their nests, dens or other hiding spots.
"I'm trying not to fall," Crowley answered in earnest.
"I can see that," Aziraphale replied dryly. Crowley was wedged in a tree fork. His arms and legs were slung around a sturdy branch. His eyes were wide open and he was breathing in short, sharp gasps, as if he was afraid that even the movement of his chest against the bark would put too much strain on the branch and cause it to snap.
"The question I probably should have asked is: what are you doing up there?"
Despite straining his ears, Aziraphale could not make out a word.
"Come again dear." He coaxed, while moving towards the towering oak tree.
"I climbed it." Crowley mumbled. His gaze was fixed on Aziraphale's shape below him.
"Pray tell me why you would do something like this?"
"I heard the sow again and panicked." Crowley admitted. "And now I can't move."
Finally, Aziraphale had reached the tree trunk and touched its bark. Crowley wasn't that high up. If he was willing to wiggle free from his tree fork and stretch his legs down, he would be able to stand on his shoulders.
"Not even a little bit? You know what goes up can also go down." Aziraphale tried to think quickly, trying to find a way to reason with the other man.
"I know. But I'm very concerned about the 'down' part…"
Aziraphale realised that this was going to be a long night. How was he supposed to convince the man to jump into his arms or stand on his shoulders when he was frozen to the spot? He chastised himself. If only he had warned Crowley or rushed to catch up with him, but no - he had to punish the man for racing towards the finishing line. Of course nothing good would come of such a thing.
"Listen," he said, trying to sound reassuring, "I'm here now, and I won't let you fall. I promise, and I always keep my promises. If you slip ,I'll catch you. I'm going to lean against the tree and you can slowly slide downwards. I'll guide your feet towards my shoulders and hold you tight until you reach the ground."
"Are you sure that I'm not too heavy for you?" Crowley tried to counter the plan with his doubts.
"I think we've already tested my capacity to carry your weight ." Aziraphale smiled as he took off his rucksack and leaned with his legs wide apart against the tree trunk. "I'm ready as soon as you are ."
He stretched his hands towards the sky and he waited.
And waited.
And waited some more.
His arms grew tired in this position as he watched Crowley make minor movements to the left or right. In the process, he was undoing the progress he had made in one direction or the other. At least his legs were no longer wrapped around the branch and dangling down. However, they were still too high up for him to reach. Just a few inches were missing and he would be able to close his hand around Crowley's ankle.
The process was so sparse that he could no longer contain the shaking of his muscles. He allowed his arms to sink down and release some of the pain. If he was lucky, he would be standing beneath the oak until late in the morning.
Without warning something heavy hit the side of his head, and the leaves above him had started to rustle frantically.
"Where is your shoulder?" Crowley hissed, his voice laced with panic.
Aziraphale's head and arms shot upwards. Of course, this idiot had to choose the moment when he had taken a break from his position to gather his courage!
A slender torso balanced on the branch, sinewy arms melded against the bark, a pert ass dangled above him, and long legs kicked in search of something stable to stand on. Crowley's growing panic made it almost impossible for Aziraphale to catch the feet and guide them towards his shoulders while dodging the missiles to avoid being kicked unconscious on impact.
Finally, he had managed to catch one of the ankles. As he closed his fingers around the bony joint, Aziraphale was surprised at how cold the skin felt. "Fuck, you are cold!" he exclaimed in surprise. The sudden outburst of foul language achieved more than fill him with a feeling of shame over his lack of self control - all movement ceased. Just some gibberish descended through the night air. Not one to look a gifted horse in the mouth, Aziraphale took hold of the other ankle and guided the feet towards his shoulders. He was fully aware that he was about to smudge the jacket, which he kept in pristine condition under any circumstances, with the caked mud caught in the deep tread.
"How are you up there?" He decided to inquire after the stream of consonants fizzled out into thin air.
"Panicky."
Aziraphale nodded. He hadn't expected a different answer to this question. However, he was concerned by the lack of snark behind these words and the truth presented so bluntly.
"Can you hold on a bit longer?" he inquired.
"Do I have a choice?" Relieved to detect some of Crowley's usual attitude returning, Aziraphale exhaled.
"Listen. I'm going to move my hands towards your knees. You're going to slide slowly towards me, and I'm going to guide your body downwards. Can you do that?"
"I think I can manage that."
'I think I can manage that.'
Was his brain abandoning him? Like rats abandoning the sinking ship - traitor! If - and that was the big question - if he managed to survive the night, he would have a long talk with the different parts of his body. He would tell his brain off for leaving him without any - not a single - good idea; his mouth off for flirting shamelessly with Aziraphale; and he would tell his stomach off for setting a swarm of butterflies loose when warm fingers slowly meandered over his calves towards his knees. Not to mention his manhood rising from slumber and starting to twitch…
His fingers cramped. Bork pricked the soft skin under his fingernails.
Crowley dared to glance downwards, his gaze locking with Aziraphale's as he looked up at him. His arms were raised above his head, his hands steady against Crowley's knees and the tip of his tongue peeked out between lightly parted lips. Little puffs of condensed air hung between them.
Crowley momentarily forgot his situation and how he had ended up in a tree of all places.
The sun was slowly rising. Its soft honeyed-gold light broke through the black forest and reflected on his blonde curls and skin, flushing his cheeks with colour. Aziraphale's eyes never left him, and Crowley swallowed around the lump in his throat when he saw his guardian angel smile at him.
"My dear-"
The gently spoken words made his knees go soft as he realized that he was in danger of falling.
His fingers slipped.
Blue eyes opened wide and he saw Aziraphale's lips moving. He heard a scream, but wasn't sure who was the one screaming. He squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the impact with the ground, and his arms reached out for something else to hold on to, since he had lost the support of the branch.
There it was!
Something solid against his hands.
Something warm and steady.
His arms locked around sturdy shoulders.
His face was pushed against a warm neck and strong hands held his bum as his legs circled around a soft middle.
His fall was stopped.
Nobody moved.
Crowley could feel a racing pulse against his neck, matching his pace. They both breathed heavily. Squeezing himself tighter into the fast softness beneath him, he realised that he felt safe. Nothing could hurt him, not even when he realised that they were both sliding down and his shins finally touched the ground again.
Crowley could not say how long they sat like this, engulfed in each other's arms.
Their breaths and pulses calmed, and he felt the hands moving upwards and drawing circles of calm on his side.
"Well, that went faster than expected," Aziraphale chuckled.
"It went nearly down like a lead balloon," Crowley could not help his retort. His ability to think slowly returned , providing him with snarky comments first and foremost.
He felt laughter rumble through Aziraphale's chest before bubbling up and exploding.
"I still got you," the blonde stated with a wink.
"You did indeed. I should probably thank you for it."
"You certainly should-"
They looked at each other. Their noses were mere inches apart. Their gazes flickered from eyes to mouth as they slowly moved towards each other. Their surroundings were forgotten. Their fight over the first picture of a nightingale was in the past - only the present moment mattered now.
Suddenly, a soft click came from the shrubbery to their right, and Anathema and Newton stepped out of it.
They both smirked. "Sorry for interrupting such an intimate moment," they said, "but we think we won this year."
Crowley and Aziraphale gasped when they saw the small picture on the digital camera, which showed two small brown birds sitting on a branch just above their joined shoulders.
Crowley felt heat creep up his face. He didn't focus on the birds but on his and Aziraphale's face and the adoration with which they had locked eyes.
They looked at each other again, and Aziraphale shrugged. Smirking, he ran his fingers through auburn curls, pulled him forward and closed the gap between them.
The background music to their first kiss was the sound of birdsong: 'Twee-tee-reee, chirr-chirr-woo, trrreee-twee-twee…'